Learning Curve

“Will it hurt?”

This is the same question I hear, at least three times a day. Every child asks it; I don’t blame them. The whole process does look scary not matter how they dress it up. I painted on the most engaging, comforting smile I could muster.

“Not a bit, sport. You may not even remember this session at all when we’re finished. Now, you need to lie down and let me put your safety belts on.”

My ‘student’ slowly relaxed back into the chair, something quite reminiscent of those dentist chairs used back when they had to worry about stuff like that. Cool and plastic-like, those things could adjust any which way to make it easier to get in someone’s mouth. My chair simply went back flat. As soon as he was in place, the chair automatically secured his wrists and ankles. He threw me a worried look, his young eyes suddenly watery and threatening to spill.

“Ah now, no need for that (. . .I quickly glanced at his chart. . .), Mike. Sometimes people throw their hands out in the middle of all this - they don’t even realize they did - I just don’t like to be slapped while I’m working.” The joke, though lame, brought a small nervous laugh from Mike. At the tender age of six, any kid entering his first scholastic session would naturally be a little troubled over the whole thing; massive equipment surrounding one reclining chair. The builders did try to soften the look of it all, by using lowered lighting and pastel colors, but it never lost that dark, looming feeling. Mike smiled once more, sighed, and turned his freshly shaved head to watch the colors swirling on the ceiling. My fingers flew in familiar combinations over the control plate next to the chair. For me, this was the fascinating part; setting up what this little person’s future was to be. His mother and father spent many months piecing together what they felt would be the best career path for their son. Dozens of different pieces of information for his life ahead were pondered over, selected or rejected, until they finally arrived at how they wanted their boy to grow and live. Finally, the last subroutine was set in place.

What looked like a clear glass dome laid on its side slid over the top half of his skull. Lasers from inside the dome danced over his skin, dots of light finding pre-positioned marks set in various spots over the ears and scalp. Before I finished the final sequence, I turned to him with a piece of small plastic flexed into a U shape.

“Before we start, could you bite onto this, please,” I asked, casually placing it into his mouth. “You don’t want a sore jaw after this, ok?”

Or half a tongue, I thought grimly to myself. Sitting back, I then nodded to him. He breathed deeply, and nodded back at me.

“Ok, see you on the side,” I said and closed the switch.

The dome went from laser to a multicolored wash of lights that seemed to almost penetrate his skin with their intensity. The next instant, Mike was grappling against his restraints. His back arched until he was fully off the chair. His eyes bulged in their sockets, staring straight ahead. His face was set in a grimace, with the tendons on his neck standing out clearly His hands shook like the claws of some trapped animal, and his feet curled painfully tight as they trembled. His knees drummed their own quick, ragged rhythms against the seat cover. All this happened as Mike screamed through clenched teeth a high pitched wail that didn’t diminish until the program finished. When it did, the tension slowly dissipated from Mike’s body, back relaxing, hands unclasping. The child sink into the chair, unconscious. This was definitely no place for the parents.

I pressed a button on my wrist band.

“Yes?” A cool female voice answered.

“Student M-2145 has finished processing, and is in need of transport to recovery,” I said in a clipped, businesslike voice. I added, “Outcome: good.”

Sarah and Mike Jones (Mike senior, that is) were waiting in my office when I entered, having changed out of my working robes and into some more suitable attire. She was in the process of dispensing with about half my box of tissue paper, her eyes and nose red from crying and worry. Her husband was half holding her in his arms as I rounded my way to the sofa opposite theirs. He looked at me with a solid face, one that was ready to take the worst news I could give. No-one could take that, I thought as I sat. Fortunately, such was not the case today. I reached over and squeezed his shoulder.

“Went through with flying colors,” I said, and smiled as I watched the couple collectively breathe in and deflate from their apprehensions. Mike Sr. grinned broadly and hugged Sarah tightly.

“See honey,” he said,” I knew everything’s gonna be fine.” He cast a quick glance at me. I chimed in fast.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Now, he will need some time to reorient himself with . . . himself. But all that’s par for the course. What you should expect right at this point is for him to be a little slow (I said this in the most soothing, reassuring voice I could,) a little like someone who has just woken with a real hangover - he doesn’t have one; it’ll just look that way.” I leaned forward toward them, and said slowly to add emphasis, “He is fine. He needs rest.”

I left the Joneses after another fifteen minutes of Q and A - hey, who wouldn’t be troubled after such a treatment, no matter how safe. Every parent I’ve met has gone through the same range of emotions when it comes to information implantation; hope, fear, guilt, anger, all mixed together. . . stomach cramps, diarrhea - the whole gamut.

It’s always come out ok in the end, I thought. . . mostly.

* * * * *

As this was my last treatment for the day, I was able slip out from the institute and head home. The cabin on the commute was nearly empty; I had beaten the rush hour press, and was able to finish my paperwork quickly, undisturbed. For the most part of an hour I then pushed back into my seat, watching the world outside my window pass in a blur. It had been a long day, four treatments (three being new - only one was a reinforcing session,) and I was ready to unwind.

I looked at my wristband - 4:53 pm. I had been toying around with the idea of getting one of those old-fashioned wrist watches - the kind that just told the time - but the thought of having to keep all the other things, communications, computer, etc., other than on my arm just seemed wrong, out of place. Don’t know why; just did. The commute stopped smoothly beside my station. People were already queuing up for the trip into the metro area, most with their cases at their sides and newsies rolled up under their arms.

I stopped in mid-platform and took another look. All dressed in similar shades of gray, the men were holding cases with their right hand, with a newsie under the right arm. None of the women carried cases. Also dressed in grays, they shouldered solid, black purses large enough to handle whatever the men brought, and then some. The line of people shuffled forward together, each passenger carefully stepping over the platform’s threshold with a slow steady rhythm, repeated over and over as the commute slowly filled. For a second, I felt as though I were watching one great gray centipede. Smiling at the thought, I shrugged and continued on my way home.

The strong scent of garlic and olive oil, combined with spices I loved but couldn’t place, wafted out at me as the apartment door slid open. A second later, my littlest one, Amanda, ran into me with a hug that would make any linebacker proud.

“Daddy! She screamed with delight, “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home! Wanna see what we did today? Come-on, come-on!” She led me by the hand, half dragging me with her four year old’s excitement, to the living room table littered with makers, crayons and all colors of paper. She pointed to one particular sheet. It had four heavy crayon scribbles on it, with little circles on top of each scribble. “That’s you, mommy, Joey n’ me,” she said breathlessly. “We’re at the park.” She still said ‘park’ as if it were ‘pok,’ but the made her all the more loveable.

“That’s beautiful, sweetheart! Did you do more?” She was just showing me her third picture when Joey rounded the corner with his favorite space-toy, making all sorts of rocket-like noises. He stopped when he saw us, ran over and hugged me.

“Hey Dad, I didn’t hear you come in.” He swooped his rocket once again and said, “You know what today is?”

“Today?” I said, feigning ignorance, “Well, I think it’s Tuesday.”

“Yeah, but . . .what else?”

“Well, let’s see. . .Trash day. Did you need to take out the trash?”

“No, it’s not Trash day.” Joey was bouncing on his heels. “Come-on, Dad. What’s today?”

“Well then . . .It must be Tickle-Monster day then,” I said as I grabbed him around the waist. In three seconds, he was squealing with laughter on the ground as I attacked his most ticklish spots. Presently, I stopped and let him up for air.

“No,” he laughed, still dodging my hands. “It’s not Tickle-Monster day.”

“Well then, it must be Booger day,” I said, making as though I was digging deep into my right nostril.

“OOOO Gross Dad!” Both Joey and Amanda were giggling.

“Is Daddy being gross again?” I turned, and there was my wife Judi, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, with a mock-disgusted look on her face, hands at her hips.

“Yeah!” Both children yelled with delight, jumping up and down on the rug.

“Ok, ok, if it isn’t Trash Day, or Tickle Monster Day, or Booger Day, it must be. . .” I crossed my arms looked at the ceiling and tapped my chin as if deep in thought. “It must be Joey’s Birthday!” The room erupted with kids’ screams (BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY!) and laughter.

“Well nothing’s going to happen unless we eat,” Judi said finally, “so let’s sit down to dinner.”

For Joey’s sixth birthday, Judi went all out - everything was fresh and real; hot dogs for the kids, steaks and tossed salads for us - not the Plasti-Lettuce you normally find at the market. I even noticed two small white plastic jugs in the fridge.

“Milk even?” I exclaimed, “How did-”

“Never you mind,” said Judi with a smile and playful nudge as she passed me. “I have my sources.” With that, we ate what was, and still is, one of the best dinners ever.

Two hours later, a new load of toys was scattered across the living room, Joey and Amanda were glued to the widescreen, and Judi and I were snuggled on the couch, enjoying a couple of hot drinks, watching our children. I was lost in a pleasant thought about what the evening’s future may have in store, when Judi nudged me.

“He hasn’t said anything yet.”

“About what?” I looked at her eyes, which seemed to have suddenly taken on concern and even a little worry. Then, it dawned on me.

“His first lesson,” I said quietly. She nodded, all the while looking at her baby boy. “I’m just a little worried, you know? What if something goes wrong? What if it doesn’t take?”

I said nothing, but took her deeper into my arms. Those questions had been jamming themselves into my mind with varying intensities for some months now. I knew, being an educator, that retakes were uncommon due to the high success rate; but they weren’t unheard of, either. The ordinary causes for retakes usually had nothing to do with procedure; parents were the main reason, trying to push their child into assimilating too quickly. A quick second session, with a quiet but direct admonition to the over-eager mom and dad, usually solved the problem.

“Tell you what,” I finally said, disengaging myself to refresh our drinks. “Why don’t you bring them into the metro, like for a day out, and stop by to see at the end of my day?” I poured two small toddies, and brought them back, steaming. “We could go to the education museum, and get the ball rolling there. What do you think?” Judi sat there for a moment, stirring her drink with a cinnamon stick, her eyes staring off in thought.

“Fine,” she said with just a slight smile now. “That would probably work out ok.” She got up to do the dishes.

* * * * *

The next morning, the cabin of the commute was filled to capacity as it departed from the platform. Over night, my laptop is regularly stuffed with the next day’s sessions, so for the next half-hour I pored over the fresh reports of students, both new and continuing, oblivious to the passing scenery.

Finished with the reports, I closed and stowed the laptop and leaned back. It was then that I noticed a rough little man in a blue worker’s jumper standing there, watching me as he held onto the strap. It was a bit of a challenge for him, for the strap was high enough to make him stretch almost to his tip-toes. His round, unshaven face, though clean, had the look of a long day’s work rubbed on it, and his jumper had on it the remains of some dirty job done. He had no case; instead, a sling containing a battered thermos and the wrapped up remains of a common processed foodstuff hung from his shoulder. His cap set back on his head, showing a thick ,unkempt op of steely colored hair, the edges shining with sweat. As he swayed to the motion of the moving commute, he seemed to be regarding me with a tired stare, his mouth hanging slightly open. I turned the gray collar of my overcoat up and looked away, suddenly very uncomfortable.

“Yer one o’ them teacher guys, are you?”